Viper Game by Christine Feehan
The soldier walked toward him. Walked. Not ran. He didn't stop to pick up the weapon he'd dropped, he just came at Trap as if he was out for a Sunday stroll. Trap swore between clenched teeth. He studied his opponent as the man came toward him, using the eye of scientist. He was good at finding weaknesses in everything around him - especially people. He catalogued and filed away the shambling walk. The blood draining from each hole in the man. The way he moved his arms and opened and closed his fists.
Trap's mind reduced the hulk to numbers, a stack of them shuffling through the dirt toward him. He calculated and calibrated and waited until the last possible moment, right before those big, beefy hands swung at him. He'd already figured the odds of the attack and exactly how the soldier would come at him. He had a few vulnerable spots, but not too many.
As the supersoldier reached with his large, ham-like hands, Trap ducked inside those arms and hit him full on the Adam's apple. It should have stunned him if not killed him. Trap had immense strength. It rocked the soldier, but those huge arms closed around him like a vise and began to squeeze. The thick skull slammed down into Trap's head. Stars burst behind his eyes.
Silken thread rained down, spinning fast around the soldier's head, covering his mouth and nose and eyes like a white mummy's hood. The soldier coughed, but he didn't let go.
Cayenne dropped from the tree above them, landing on the soldier's shoulders, wrapping her arm around his neck and sinking her teeth into the artery there. Instantly, the soldier flung Trap from him, reached back and ripped Cayenne off his back. Again he rained punches on her body while he held her in the air, fury and something close to hatred and revulsion in his eyes.
She didn't make a sound. Not a single one. As if she'd been punched like that before. Trap dragged himself up just as the soldier dropped her, aimed a kick and sent her flying. Trap was on him instantly, this time, ducking inside, but going for the kill, slamming his knife under the raised arm, directly into the armpit. He shoved it in, using every bit of strength he possessed.
The soldier didn't have any armor there. He screamed and went down, taking Trap with him. Trap ripped the blade loose and plunged it in a second time, this time, twisting it hard for maximum damage. The moment he had the blade out, he went for the throat, slicing through arteries to ensure this one wouldn't rise again.
He crawled backward like a crab away from the man and turned his head to find Cayenne. She was moving. Slow. Again there was no sound. He hated that. Rage was there all over again.
"We can't stay down," he said, making his way to her. He wiped the blood from his blade on the grass and shoved the knife back down into his boot. "Can you walk?"
She lifted her head and looked at him. Looked at the hand he held out to get her on her feet. She made no move to take his hand. He actually felt the blast of distrust. No fear. Only that disdain. Contempt even.
"How bad is it? Can you get on your feet? I'm a medic, I can help."
He started to move his hands over her body and she rolled away fast, kicking out at him. Something wild crept into her eyes.
"Fine. Get the hell up." Trap was out of patience. "I've got men fighting these things and they need help. You like it better on your own, you've got it."
He stalked away from her, letting the fury have him for just a moment. Letting it consume him when he was always still inside. Always quiet. Emotions didn't figure in his world. They couldn't. He jogged. Then sprinted. Straight for hell. He knew hell and he belonged there. It was a world of kill or be killed. Black-and-white rules. He understood those rules and accepted them.
By the time he'd rounded the corner of the house, his mind was still again. She was gone as if she'd never been. Draden was down, under the weight of a sandy-haired soldier who would have looked more at home lifting weights on the beach than he did fighting. The muscles in his arms and back were so big, his head looked a little like a pin sitting atop a giant marshmallow.
Go for his armpit, Draden, Trap advised as he ran toward the two struggling men.
Draden's face was nearly purple as the soldier relentlessly clamped his hands around Draden's neck and squeezed.
Shoot, Mordichai. Take the shot, Draden ordered.
Still not clear, he's throwing you all around, Mordichai said.
Draden's boot heel smashed into his opponent's thigh repeatedly, but the soldier didn't so much as flinch.
Trap pulled a gun as he sprinted toward Draden. He knew Mordichai's approximate position and kept out of the line of fire, just in case, but truthfully, he was wholly focused on the soldier strangling Draden.
He shot him through the back of the neck, which should have instantly paralyzed the soldier, but Trap wasn't taking chances. He shot him again twice, and then as he got on top of him, he shoved the gun into the man's ear and squeezed the trigger. Blood sprayed over Draden's face and body. The grip seemed to tighten for a moment, and then the soldier slumped over. Trap tore his fingers from around Draden's throat.
Draden dragged air into his lungs. "Wyatt's right. Braden started the zombie apocalypse," he wheezed.
Trap shoved the soldier off his friend. "It's going to be a hell of a long night getting rid of bodies. We'll take them back to the crematorium when we go to visit Braden."
Draden nodded and allowed Trap to bring him to his feet. He wiped off the blood, spit, drew in more air and looked around.
Anyone left to fight, Mordichai?
Zeke's got two on him at the front door. I'm moving position to try to help him.
We'll come around.
One might have slipped inside, Mordichai advised. Was three. Now two.
Someone's in the house, Wyatt said, keeping his curses to himself. Pepper, tell me you've got this.
Both he and Nonny had weapons at hand, but killing any of the soldiers was clearly a difficult task. It took time he didn't have. Worse, stopping the bleeding and saving Malichai's kidney was proving to be more complicated than he wanted it to be. The knife had done considerable damage. He felt the presence of the soldier as he moved inside, a stealthy stalk, straight toward the operating room, drawn, Wyatt was certain, by the blazing lights.
Pepper braced herself. She didn't have the right angle on the soldier for a bullet to take him down. She had no choice. She knew that. She also knew what it meant for her. For Wyatt. Still, she wasn't about to let him kill Wyatt or take her children. Sacrificing her happiness for them was a no-brainer.
As the soldier yanked open the door to the operating room and thrust his gun inside, she flung herself at him, her hands sliding under his shirt, allowing the maximum of the biochemical to penetrate. His finger stilled on the trigger, just as she'd known it would. Just as she'd practiced a million times.
She moved around him, sliding her body against his so that he dropped the weapon and reached for her, ripping at the front of her shirt. That just exposed more skin, and she ripped at his shirt, allowing skin-to-skin contact. His mouth came down and she turned her head up, blocking out everything but what she had to do - what it would take to save her family. The very thing that would destroy her.
She kissed him. She kissed him and killed him, all in one bittersweet moment. She wasn't such a failure as a weapon as they'd thought her. Their weapon had worked perfectly twice now in a combat situation. Her heart beat fast as she stepped back from the man, knowing the cobra venom was fast acting. Was fatal.
The soldier's eyes clung to her as if she was his everything. As if she hadn't just injected him with enough venom to kill an elephant. Absolute adulation. Her heart stuttered in her chest. Bile rose in her throat. She didn't allow herself to look away from him, giving him that much, knowing he would die thinking she was his.
She despised herself. She couldn't look away from him, away from the blasphemy of biochemical love. She'd used something precious to kill. She'd been turned into such an abomination there was no saving her. She saw the knowledge in the soldier's eyes and it killed something in her.
She steppe
His adoring gaze still clung to her. The venom was taking hold, his face drooping, but he still managed to turn his face toward her palm. She felt his tongue lick at her skin, seeking more of the addicting drug.
His knees gave out abruptly and she went to the floor with him, on her own knees, arm around his back, pushing the gun away from him, deeper into the room so if another came they had more protection.
Pepper was careful not to look at Wyatt or Nonny. The scent of blood and death permeated the air so that with every breath she drew into her lungs she brought the knowledge of who and what she was - what she would always be. There was no cure for a woman like her. And no living with a woman like her.
She watched him die slowly, his lungs paralyzed so that his death came inch by terrible inch, and she refused to look away from what she was.
"Pepper."
Wyatt's voice penetrated, but she didn't take her eyes off the dying soldier's eyes.
"Pepper, you're done. Get away from there."
She shook her head.
Honey, there's nothin' you can do. He would have killed us. He would have killed or taken our children.
She hated that Wyatt's voice was soft with tenderness. He didn't want to see the truth. He was too good of a man, but she was sitting on the floor with a man she'd killed, while he stared at her adoringly. What kind of a monster was she? How could Wyatt realistically live with her? Stay with her? Make a life with her? And her beautiful little daughters - their - daughters, they couldn't be like her. She couldn't let that happen.
The soldier's eyes were wide open, staring into hers, yet the muscles in his face drooped hideously. His eyes begged her. Pleaded with her. Not for life. Not that. That no longer mattered to him. Her stomach heaved. Her throat burned. She knew what mattered to him and he was dying.
She leaned into him and whispered into his ear. Let her skin rub along his. She gave him what he wanted more than life itself. The drug that was her.
Pepper! Get the hell away from him. He's killin' you. Can' you see that? You did your job. I've got my hands full and I can' get you away from him myself. Back off, go to the girls. Look at them, not at the enemy.
The tenderness was replaced by the commander. Ordinarily she would never have disobeyed an order - especially not if Wyatt gave it. This was different. She wasn't going to allow this man to die alone. She didn't have that in her.
Without warning, Wyatt stalked across the room and dragged her to her feet, yanking her blouse closed so that her full breasts were out of sight. Blood smeared the material - Malichai's blood - she could smell it. She refused to look up at Wyatt. She couldn't face him. Couldn't face the censure. Or the disgust.
"He's gone, Pepper. Get to the girls."
She already knew the soldier was gone. She'd never stopped looking into his eyes. She saw the life fade away, heard that last rattle as his body struggled against the venom. Without a word she stepped over him and hurried down the hall to stand in front of the door to the nursery where her daughters lay sleeping. She wouldn't go inside. She wouldn't contaminate them - bring something sick and evil into their sleeping place. She stood there with silent tears running down her face, but the gun was steady in her hands.
Ezekiel leapt into the air, ran up the side of the house and jumped onto the back of one of the soldiers attacking him. His powerful thighs closed like a vise around the man's neck while his knife bit deep into first the throat, then the ear and finally the artery along the neck. He stabbed dozens of times, trying for the soft places that might stop the soldier's forward momentum toward the door.
He'd already broken one blade, and his gun seemed useless. The soldiers barely paid attention to him, they were so fixated on the house. Every other soldier was used for distraction, for fodder. These three were meant to retrieve or kill the three girls or Pepper. Maybe all of them. One had already slipped inside. One was at the door. He had the biggest.
Dozens of stab wounds and the soldier wasn't even staggering yet. It made no sense. He didn't appear to feel pain at all. Whatever Braden had given his supersoldiers to kill the pain and exterminate the fear factor was working.
Another one getting into the house. I could use a little help here, Ezekiel said.
The soldier reached back at him, knife in fist, trying to plunge the blade in Ezekiel's thigh. Ezekiel was forced to catch the man's thick wrist and turn the knife away from him. He leapt from his back, landing low in a crouch.
Coming in now, Trap advised.
He shot through the columns, feet first, flying through the air to catch the soldier entering the house just as he was starting to pull open the door. The force of his flying double kick drove the soldier back to the rail. He teetered there for a moment and then fell over it headfirst. Unfortunately the drop wasn't that far, but he landed hard enough that it shook the ground.
Draden was waiting, crouched low on the other side of the railing, his gun out. As the soldier fell, he fired rapidly. Throat. Eyes. Ears. He got a lucky break and the soldier flung one arm out and he managed to fire three times into the exposed armpit. With each shot, he backed away, kicking the man's weapons away.
Trap landed in the middle of the porch on the balls of his feet and kept moving, straight toward Ezekiel and his monster of a soldier. At the last second, he hit the ground sliding, his momentum carrying him under the soldier, sweeping the big man's legs out from under him. The soldier went down hard, his gun pointed up in the air, bullets spitting loudly in the night.
Trap drove his knife deep into the soft parts of the body, and the bullets kept coming, although now the soldier was getting his weapon under control. Ezekiel went under the short automatic, his hands around the soldier's wrist, trying to gain some control. The bullets kept coming.
Trap swore, something rose in him, pouring ice into his veins, slowing time and allowing an absolute, utter calm so his brain could take over. He used his knife on the hand holding the gun, a ruthless, brutal act, and there wasn't a single cell in his body that even flinched.
Draden was there, shooting the man in all the soft parts of his face and neck, the only vulnerable spots on him. When he finally was still, the silence of the night took over.
All clear, Mordichai reported from above. They're all down.
Make certain, Trap directed. Every last one of them. And then get them in the big boat. We're taking them back to Braden and using his own crematorium to get rid of them. I wouldn't mind five minutes alone with that bastard.
Ezekiel took a deep breath. Wyatt? Malichai?
He's good, breathin'. He'll need to sleep off the anesthesia for some time. Nonny knows what to do. I'm gettin' ready to join you and I'm bringin' out another one.
One got in the house while you were operating? Ezekiel demanded.
No problem, Pepper took care of it. Malichai is fine. He'll be fine.
Trap moved away from the others and jogged around the corner to check on the woman. She was gone. He knew she'd be gone, but he had to check all the same. He went to the spot where she'd gone down, crouched and read the signs. She was hurt all right. It had taken her a few minutes to get up, but she'd done it. She'd dragged herself a good way before she was back on her feet. The tracks led straight toward the trees. She was heading for the swamp.
He shook his head. She had the right to live free. They all should, but still, banding together was far better than going it alone. He could have told her that. He turned back to the people who had become his family and joined in dragging the big soldiers to the boat.
Be careful, Wyatt, Ezekiel cautioned. It bothers me we didn't come across one single civilian guard. The place looks deserted, but I'm getting a bad vibe.
Got the same vibe, Zeke, Wyatt responded. But Braden's goin' down tonight.
Wyatt dropped down through the hole in the roof Braden hadn
Clearly Braden thinks his brain is so much more superior that he hasn't bothered to step up the security here at his laboratory, Wyatt observed.
Braden found a way to give his soldiers more armor, but their speed and their thinking abilities were greatly impaired, Trap answered. He's probably judging us the same way.
Go easy, Wyatt, could be an ambush, Ezekiel cautioned again. He paused for a moment. I got a bad vibe off your woman as well when we went in to secure the house.
Wyatt sighed, checked the laboratory. It was empty. The entire compound seemed abandoned. Even the civilians and the dog. He pushed open the door and walked boldly in, scanning the dark room. He sighed. Yeah. I caught that, Zeke. Whitney can definitely find psychics even when they're babies, but he can't tell who is goin' to make a good soldier. She isn' so good at handlin' the killin' part.
She'll get over it, Trap declared.
No, Trap. She isn' like us, Wyatt contradicted. She won'. She's goin' to have a difficult time with this one. All of you keep an eye on her.
She's yours, Ezekiel said. And ours. She's one of us. We'll watch her.
They dropped down, one by one, and entered the laboratory.
Somethin's lyin' right out in the open. North side. On the table there, Wyatt said. It looks like a man.
He moved quickly between the rows of tables and desks to get to the one where the body lay spread out right on top of smashed beakers. Glass was everywhere, but Whitney had made a statement and it was a big one. Wyatt knew it was Whitney before he took the note off Braden's chest and glanced at the signature.
Four folders sat beside Braden's dead hand. The top one simply said Pepper in bold letters.
"He cleared everyone from this place. Any dead he must have had burned in the crematorium. He doesn't like anyone to go against him, and Braden must have branched out on his own." Wyatt frowned down at the paper in his hand, shaking his head.